


To the Bone

by horrorgremlin (catstuff)



Series: Once Bitten [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Bloodplay, F/M, Gore, Original characters created for and then adapted from Monsterhearts, Self-Harm, Vampires, boundary violations, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstuff/pseuds/horrorgremlin
Summary: Mariah finishes sharpening the knives and turns around in time to catch him looking desperate. Immediately he feels he’s made a grave mistake. The way she smiles confirms it.
Series: Once Bitten [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702981
Kudos: 2





	To the Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: emotional abuse history, consent violations, bloodplay, cutting/self harm, minor gore.

Grayson recognizes the bar: he’s been here once, before he knew what it was. Then, it had become clear pretty quickly from the atmosphere that he had stepped outside of his usual world; he drank, observed, and left. This time, he notices how carefully the place is maintained, despite the overall run-down appearance of both the outside and the inside: crumbled bricks and cracked leather, a tattered awning over a stone staircase down to the door, everything chipped and stained and meticulously clean. The tables are cramped little things, but the layout of the place has them all backed into odd little corners, creating angles of privacy. Grayson makes brief eye contact with the bartender – _I know what I’m here for_ – and heads straight for the far right corner.

The last table is crammed into an acute angle of space with two rickety-looking chairs. One of the chairs is empty. In the other one sits Grayson’s contact. Well, his old roommate’s boyfriend’s contact, though whoever it was had texted him directly to arrange this meeting. As Grayson pulls back the empty chair to sit down, the woman turns to face him, and the dismal lighting of the place doesn’t slow his recognition at all, nor does the haircut, nor do the years that have gone by. He’d know that face anywhere. He’d know it behind a mask.

This is the bitch who ruined his life, and then killed him. Or maybe vice versa.

She doesn’t seem to have expected him, either, because his attempt to cover his rush of wild terror and dismay is met with open, predatory delight.

 _“Grayson.”_ It’s the first time he’s heard that name on her lips, but the way she says it still makes him feel like a teenager again somehow. He desperately wants it out of her mouth.

He needs the money.

“Mariah,” he forces out. Neither attempts a handshake. He meets her eyes only because he promised himself that he would if he ever saw her again, has been promising it to himself for years. His hands and voice are surprisingly steady, but his mind is everywhere at once. He grasps at his whirlwind of thoughts. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re in this business.”

She laughs and he feels a stab in his heart, first fondness then much larger hatred (with her) and disgust (with himself) then he steadies himself again. He tries not to think about how this is every one of his nightmares come true. This is why he kept away from this world for as long as he did, as long as he could… Anywhere Mariah is present, she is inescapable.

Her eyes narrow as she toys with her drink, studying him. “I’m just surprised you managed to stay away this long. Everyone comes to me sooner or later.” Her smile is a facsimile of pity.

“Just tell me the terms. How much do you need, and how much do you pay?”

Mariah doesn’t show her teeth, but her smile grows wider and more sincere. “What’s the hurry? Settle in, let me buy you a drink.”

Grayson takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. “Just tell me.”

She drains the last of her drink and lightly sets the glass back down on the tiny table. “It depends on the quality. And you being a new source, I will of course have to sample the merchandise before making a purchase.”

He should have seen this coming. She’s leering at him like a cat. He feels the heat rising in his face and regrets having fed so recently. He needed to, for this, but now his already aroused nervous system is speeding his heartbeat to a muffling drum in his ears — a predictable reaction to Mariah’s presence, but an annoyingly pointless one, because it’s not like he hasn’t already thought through his other options.

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. He forces himself to accept that he has no leverage here, and it’s not going to be pleasant; now he just wants to get it over with. “Where?”

She rises neatly and strides away without saying a word. Grayson bangs his knee on the table in his hurry to follow before she disappears around a corner.

They pass through an industrial-looking door and down a slim hallway. He lets himself make all the facial expressions, disgusted snarls and wide stretches of blank terror and grimaces of shameful regret, that he couldn’t while she was looking at him. When they reach the door at the far end of the hall, Mariah holds it open, gesturing for Grayson to enter first. He feels the dangerous prickle of her eyes on him as soon as she’s behind his back.

The room, while not by any means spacious, is less cramped than the bar, for which he’s grateful. He’s less happy about the stone walls and floor, and the metal cart that holds organized rows of vials and jars, a box of gloves, a box of alcohol wipes, two very sharp looking knives in different sizes, a few clean rags and a few filthy with dried blood. The only other thing in the room is a case of bottled water sitting askew on the floor, half emptied, torn plastic still holding the rest together.

He hears the door close. Then he hears a lock click.

He spins around and she’s already stepping toward him, sniffing unsubtly at the air around him. Her nose wrinkles. “You smoke _cigarettes_ now?”

“I haven’t today.”

Her eyes roll, but she dismisses it. “Fine then. Nothing else in your system in the last 24 hours but clean, healthy blood, yes?”

“I read the instructions.” He’s starting to get impatient.

“Take off your jacket.”

He shrugs it off and tosses it in the corner nearest the door.

Mariah holds a hand out, palm up. “May I?”

For a moment Grayson freezes like a prey animal, old instincts that haven’t been relevant or necessary in years flaring up without his permission. It’s disconcerting. He doesn’t want to be having these reactions. He forces himself to raise his arm and lay his wrist in her hand, palm facing up. He isn’t really thinking about what to expect next. He isn’t really thinking at all.

She lifts his forearm to her face, pulls her lips back, and sinks her canines into the meat of his wrist.

The shock of pain snaps him back to attention. He remembers the brave act he meant to put on, but when he looks up and finds her sharp, dark eyes boring into his, he has to actively remind himself that she hasn’t been able to hypnotize him since before she turned him.

“I thought you didn’t drink vamp blood,” he monotones as she theatrically runs her tongue over the punctures, catching the heavy drops that escape before the wound closes itself.

The briefest hesitation. “I don’t.” She drops his arm without ceremony and turns to the metal cart, picking up and examining some of the jars. “I also don’t sell tainted or subpar merchandise, so I’ve learned to judge quality and identify contaminants. I make a point of running a clean business.”

Grayson flexes his hand slowly, staring down at the spot on his wrist where Mariah bit him. It’s completely clean; she made sure to get all the blood. He thinks about how she slowly wrapped her tongue around the forming rivulets before they could spill. _Doesn’t drink, my ass._ His head feels hot and swollen. Everything feels hot and swollen. He needs this blood out of him.

Mariah finishes sharpening the knives and turns around in time to catch him looking desperate. Immediately he feels he’s made a grave mistake. The way she smiles confirms it.

She steps well inside his personal space, close enough that he knows she’ll feel the heat of everything coming off him right now, the arousal, the shame, the despondence, their entire disgusting history that he’d spent years trying to bury all bursting past the floodgate at once, feeding his pulse and the churning of too much blood in his ears, in his sweaty palms, in his – her fingers are on his cheek suddenly. They’re soothingly cool, but the way they slide down to cup his chin brings a fresh wave of emotion, acrid and maddening.

“This is a good look for you,” she says, and has the nerve to pluck at his uneven flop of curls, though she’s clearly not just talking about his hair. “Who knows, if you’d come out back when we were friends, I just might have…”

She tries to brush her fingertips down his sternum and he grabs her wrist, hard. “I would never.”

“There’s that fire!” She laughs and pats his cheek twice with her free hand, hard enough to sting. “You know, Grayson, I think I missed you.”

His grip tightens on her wrist. Snapping it would accomplish nothing, but he’s on the verge of losing it completely, and this might be his least terrible option. Just in time, she yanks her arm away roughly, and he manages to let her. She produces a large glass jar from the cart. It looks spotless, but the metal lid says it used to hold tomato sauce. Under different circumstances, he might laugh.

She holds the jar out to Grayson. Derailed and skeptical, he slowly takes it from her. “Fill three of these,” she says, and his jaw almost drops because this is a 16-ounce jar. “Please,” she scoffs, seeing his expression, “you have _plenty_ to spare.”

He keeps staring down at the jar in his hands. Three of these. But as loath as he is to admit it, she isn’t wrong; his whole body feels straining to burst. He might feel better after. He would definitely feel better if he snapped Mariah’s neck, but that wouldn’t get him paid, and he staunchly refuses to contemplate any other options that would relieve him of this awful electric flood.

Mariah hesitates, contemplating, as she observes him. Then she leans down to place an oddly gentle kiss on his cheek. He flinches just the slightest bit, but doesn’t move otherwise. He’s done talking to her.

She steps back into her professional voice. “All the jars are clean,” she informs him. “It may take some work at first to keep a wound open long enough to get a substantial amount. You’ll figure it out.”

His face and neck are burning, burning. He takes the information in from somewhere far away. He wills himself out of his body.

“You can let yourself out when you’re done. The door will lock behind you. Don’t worry about cleaning everything up, as long as you don’t make a _big_ mess.”

His breath is shaky as she opens the door to leave. Just focus on the jar until she leaves. Just look at the jar and breathe…

Pausing in the open doorway, she says, “One more thing. Grayson?”

“What.”

“Don’t lie to me. We both know you would have fucked me in a heartbeat, if I’d let you.”

He hears the door close.

Everything crashes down around him. The jar lands hard on the floor, but doesn’t break. He doubles over on his knees, head in hands, silently sobbing as his attempts to steady his breath lapse again and again back into hyperventilation. He doesn’t even need these fucking lungs, but panic attacks don’t give a shit.

Eventually he starts regaining his senses. His crying and poor breathing have transmuted the full-body swollen ache from something hungry to something still desperate, but rotting. He needs it out. He needs it out right now.

He sits up and takes stock of his surroundings. He collects the fallen jar, takes two more of the same size, and lines them up with their lids off. He chooses the smaller of the two knives from the cart – it’s big enough, and looks a lot easier to control – and sits down on the ground, back pressed against the mercifully cold wall through thin layers of fabric.

48 ounces. Okay.

Grayson adjusts his grip on the knife handle, checking the angle relative to his other arm. Then he reaches out over the first jar, grits his teeth, and slices a shaky-handed but determined gash down his inner forearm. The first drops land on the ground, wasted, before he adjusts his position. The pain is less than he expected, set against the pounding heat he’s been suffering since he first saw Mariah’s face earlier that night, which at this point feels like an endless lifetime ago.

Aided by the ready supply of fresh blood, his muscle and tendons quickly move to knit themselves back together, skin trying to close around the blade. He twists the knife at a rough angle, wrenching the wound back open. The sensation is starting to focus him, actually. With a few more twists he finds a decent spot he can keep pressing on and slowly but surely the first jar begins to fill. By the time it’s topped off, he’s shaking and has to take a break. When he removes the knife, his body hesitates a moment before it starts to repair itself again, as if it’s not sure it believes that he’s done.

It’s right not to trust. It hurts much more sharply a minute later when he starts on jar number two. He works the blade unsteadily between his tendons, and when it stops against his bone and can’t dig any further, his breath catches and he starts to sob again, not quite silently, but softly. Tears run down from his eyes, just a few, but it’s more than he’s cried in a long, long time. His sobs get longer and throatier as he continues to sabotage his body’s repeated attempts to heal.

He moves on to the third jar without another break. The trickle of blood is slowing despite his best efforts, but he keeps moving and trying different spots on his arm until all three jars are topped off and his sobs have tapered into silence.

He places the knife carefully on the floor as he looks down through a fog at his mangled left arm. The whole limb has gone sallow and pale. The broken tissues reach for each other, but all the vitality is gone from him. It heals slowly, and he watches until there’s nothing left but his unbroken skin and some smeary dried trails coming from nowhere.

Now he understands why the case of water is here. He downs half a bottle in practically one gulp, uses a bit to rinse his hands and wipe them clean on his shirt, and then drinks the rest. The pounding in his head, heart, and groin has finally, blessedly subsided. Now he just feels spent and numb, which is much more tolerable.

Suddenly Grayson realizes he’s shaking with cold, now lacking adequate blood supply to circulate properly. He stands up and puts his jacket back on, then huddles down again by the wall. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket, sticks one in his mouth, and is about to light it when he’s hit by another enormous, unbidden wave of emotion: shame again, sorrow, loss, abandonment, guilt. With great effort, he swallows back a sob and clicks his lighter.

By the time he stubs the cigarette out on the floor, he’s ready to get the fuck out of there. Almost as an afterthought, he screws the lids onto all three jars of his blood, and decides they’ll be safer if he leaves them on the cart. Only then does he see the cash Mariah left for him, pocketing it before he flees.


End file.
